Not polished yet. Not tempered all the way through. But raw ore, sparking hotter every time I put him through the fire.
He catches my gaze then—finally, finally. Mid-laugh—and his grin falters. Just for a second. Just enough.
He feels it. The weight of my eyes. The calm. The inevitable.
And he knows.
He’ll bleed for me tonight.
The tunnel hums under our blades as we line up. Helmets down, sticks clutched, the Reapers stacked shoulder to shoulder in the red glow of home lights. The crowd’s roar vibrates through concrete, louder with every heartbeat.
Wranglers wait on the other side of the glass. Orange and white jerseys, cocky smirks, sticks banging like they own this ice. They don’t. Not here. Not in my barn.
I glance down the line. Cole bouncing like he’s on camera. Mats smirking sharp as a blade. Tyler already sweating bullets. Viktor silent, terrifying.
And Elias.
He’s buzzing out of his skin. He catches me watching—just for a second—and the grin he shoots me is all teeth.
Good.
The anthem drags long and heavy. We stand shoulder to shoulder, the smell of ice and smoke burning in my lungs. I don’t sing. I never do. My hand clenches the top of my stick, tape biting into my palm, eyes steady on the flag until the last note drops.
The horn blasts. The barn erupts.
Puck drops.
Chaos.
Wranglers play like they’re rabid—sticks slashing, bodies crashing, speed like wildfire. They want to bury us fast. Test our rookies. Make an example of us in our own arena.
Not happening.
I’m on the ice second shift. Steel in my lungs, fire in my veins, body colliding with orange jerseys like they were built for me to break. Hits sharp. Clean. Deliberate. Every Wranglers forward I bury into the glass is one less fucker coming near my rookies.
Elias’s line jumps over the boards next.
I stay standing on the bench, eyes locked on him as he takes center circle. Cole lines up at his wing, chirping the Wrangler opposite him before the whistle even blows. Mats taps Elias’s shin.
The puck drops.
Elias explodes.
Fast. Hungry. His stick wins the draw like it’s wired into his bones, his body snapping low, fast hands dragging the puck back to Mats before the Wranglers center even realizes he’s lost. The barn erupts—because the rookie just won his first home draw clean against a veteran ten years older than him.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look up. Justgoes.Bursting up ice like he’s being chased, curls flying, jersey flashing black and crimson under the lights.
Wranglers crash into him hard—twice his size, slamming his ribs, checking him into the boards like they want to fold him in half.
He doesn’t go down.
Not for them.
Not while I’m watching.
Wrangler defense hounds him, one slamming into his hip, another hacking his stick. He’s bent low, skating like fire, but they want him rattled. They want to bury the rookie in his first home shift.
They don’t.
